


Hand in Unloveable Hand

by sidewalksofny



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, best song ever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-26
Updated: 2013-07-26
Packaged: 2017-12-21 09:31:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/898698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidewalksofny/pseuds/sidewalksofny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The more he talked, the deeper he felt he was digging himself. His heart was sinking down to toes, the lump in his throat was the size of a grapefruit, and he was certain his tie was slowly tightening around his throat. He just knew they hated it—his presentation, his ideas, his artwork, everything. </p>
<p>(in which Marcel bombs his First Big Presentation and Louis goes to comfort him)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hand in Unloveable Hand

Marcel sat on the edge of the bench, fists slowly clenching and relaxing, focusing on deep breaths and blinking furiously, because he was 25 and definitely, certainly, absolutely not about to cry just because he’d had a rough day at work. Definitely, certainly, absolutely not.

It was just that he’d been so excited. Not only did he really love One Direction—they were just so darn cute!!—but this was his first big assignment since joining the firm; finally a major project of his own after countless months of mindless commercials and small-time local work. And he’d done so much research, spent so many nights online, drinking too many cups of coffee to keep him up, eagerly scribbling down pages upon pages of notes, finding the hottest trends, the successes of boy bands past, what he thought would work so well. He’d excitedly put together the mock-ups, unable to keep himself from lightly touching them up with Sharpie until the moment he walked through the door, and agonized over his outfit the night before, running into the next room to ask his aunt’s opinion on different sweater vests, carefully weighing the pros and cons of a necktie versus a bow tie. He’d pressed everything, put a little extra hair gel in, and was so high on endorphins that morning that he didn’t even mind when the commuter jam on the bus knocked off and broke his glasses, forcing him to resort to a last-minute patch job of masking tape.

He’d gone into the room shaking a little from the excitement and started the pitch he’d practiced so many times in the mirror. He wasn’t too discouraged by their lack of enthusiasm at first; it was a bit early, and he still hadn’t fully explained everything, and besides they hadn’t seen Leeroy’s great moves yet! But the more he talked, the deeper he felt he was digging himself. His heart was sinking down to toes, the lump in his throat was the size of a grapefruit, and he was certain his tie was slowly tightening around his throat. He just knew they hated it—his presentation, his ideas, his artwork, everything. Not only One Direction, but Jonny and Harvey, too; he saw their uneasy glances back and forth, the slow head shakes. Even Veronica watching in the back, who was usually so supportive of his material, was actively trying to keep from wincing.

Finally, Harvey put him out his misery, said he and Jonny could take it from there. Marcel tried to keep his dignity, tried not to make it obvious how badly he wanted to dash out the door and hop the nearest plane, never to be seen again, tried to pretend he didn’t hear Zayn’s not-so-quiet whisper of ‘Is he serious, though?’

He’d left a note on Veronica’s desk asking her to pass along the message to Harvey and Jonny that he wasn’t feeling well and had gone home, and that was that. The bus would be there in about 15 minutes and then he’d go home, strip everything off, and bury himself in bed for as long as he could get away with.

"Hey."

Marcel looked up, startled. He’d been so focus on notcryingnotcryingnotcrying that he hadn’t even noticed someone approach. It was Louis, hands in his jacket pockets, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other.

"Um. Are you—are you ok?"

Pointedly avoiding the question, Marcel looked straight ahead. “Aren’t you missing your meeting?" It would’ve come off properly cold if he hadn’t tacked on a pathetic sniffle before he could stop himself. He sat up a little straighter and hoped Louis hadn’t heard.

"I think the other four can handle Jonny and Harvey on their own." Louis sat down tentatively on other end of the bench, sensing the hostility, which he had to admit was pretty well deserved. He turned towards Marcel, determined to try again. “I didn’t think your ideas were so bad, you know."

Marcel turned at that and shifted the tiniest bit closer, eyes wide with surprise. “Really?"

Louis cringed inwardly. He’d never been a good poker player. But Marcel was just so darn cute. “Well… the artwork was really… sharp."

Marcel sighed dejectedly, head down. “You hated them."

"No, no, no!" Louis scooted closer and put a hand on Marcel’s knee, sending an unexpected wave of heat through Marcel’s body. “It’s just— We just— You just don’t know us, is all. That’s not who we are. But I could tell how hard you worked. And I love that you care so much."

Marcel’s lips—which Louis was definitely, certainly, absolutely not staring at—curled into a small smile. “Yeah?"

"Yeah." Louis felt his eyes crinkling and inwardly rolled his eyes at himself. He never got like this, but most of him just couldn’t be brought to give a fuck. He cleared his throat and shook himself a bit. “You should maybe come hang out with us some time. You know, get to know us. That way we can all work together to come up with something good."

Marcel was so surprised his feet kicked out involuntarily, sending his bag and its contents flying. He knelt down, hurriedly trying to sweep together paper clips and carefully sharpened No.-2 Ticonderogas, glancing up. “You mean you still want me for the job? You’re not gonna have Jonny and Harvey assign someone else?"

Louis, who had knelt down to help, laughed. “Never. I wouldn’t want any other marketing guy. Here." He dropped a handful of paper clips into Marcel’s palm, and Marcel mumbled a quick “Thanks" and ducked his head when their hands brushed so Louis wouldn’t see his face reddening. Was this unprofessional? He couldn’t remember was the ‘Welcome to the Company!’ employee manual he’d read cover to cover upon being hired said about this sort of thing. But another glance at Louis told him he just couldn’t be brought to give a fuck.

They’d been holding eye contact just a second longer than usual when the silence was interrupted by the bus coming down the block. Marcel stood up. “Well, that’s my ride!"

Louis stood as well. “What about hanging out, then?"

Marcel turned, scratching the side of his head nervously. “Well. Um. Actually. I, uh. I was thinking. Um. I’d rather just, um. Just hang out with you?" he finished a bit lamely. “Do you think we could— I mean, would you want—"

"Yeah." Louis could feel his whole face lighting up, but he didn’t care the least bit any more. The way Marcel was looking at him now didn’t leave room for anything but being hopelessly enamored. “Yeah, definitely." The bus was rolling to a halt now and, suddenly feeling brave, Louis grabbed Marcel's hand and leaned in to press a chaste kiss to his lips. “I’ll call you, ok?"

Marcel’s smile, lip bite and all, could’ve lit the globe like Vegas for the next century. “Yeah. See ya, button."

Louis laughed. “See ya."

**Author's Note:**

> Ehh not sure how much I like this tbqh but I figured I'd throw it on here anyway. Title from "No Children" by the Mountain Goats.


End file.
